


The Efficacy of the Future

by IHaveNeverBeenWise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Modern AU, Occupy Wall Street, occupy davis, occupy wall street au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/pseuds/IHaveNeverBeenWise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>September rolls around and whispers begin. <i> Zuccotti Park, haven’t you heard? Tents, drum circles, education – the people are rising! I heard people are coming from all over. My friend from Orgeon moved up there, brought a tent. Do you think we could do something like that here? Do you think we have enough people? D’ya think the faculty’d be okay with it? </i> Things begin to spiral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Efficacy of the Future

**Author's Note:**

> For Enjolras/Combeferre week, Oct 27 - Nov 2.

When Combeferre opens his eyes in the morning, Enjolras has already woken up, and Combeferre absolutely does _not_ let out a small whine and roll on to Enjolras’ side of their bed. (At some point, the everything had simply become theirs - the bed is one such example. And the apartments had been shared, even before they’d moved in together. The books, the furniture, everything was shared between them, an equal give and take.) Sighing, Combeferre forces himself to sit up, propping himself up on his elbows as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

His legs are stiff; his shoulders, elbows, and knees ache; his ribs are bruised. Davis police are not known for their gentle tendencies, and cardboard, while it offers minimal protection, makes shoddy armor. Combeferre is used to the aches and pains that come with being detained and arrested – he can afford it, once or twice. He has a semi-steady and respectable job, does not fight back. Enjolras, Bahorel, Bossuet, Eponine, and Prouvaire have records – they are the priority when it comes to escape, along with Feuilly, who cannot afford to be caught. But the rest of them, they’re fair game. Protect those that need protecting and keep track of the herd, and if that means getting caught, then so be it. They’re prepared.

Joly makes new shirts with medic scrawled across them every time the old ones get ripped, Courfeyrac passes out business cards for all the local law firms, Cosette teaches them how to escape zip ties. Better safe than sorry, and there’s a savings account for bail. Usually, it’s okay. It’s just a speech, just a march – the permits have been signed, nonviolence trainings have been completed. But other times, it’s like yesterday, and Combeferre ends up being shoved to the ground, arms wrenched behind his back. He didn’t fight back (although it didn’t stop him from yelling) , and he knows that someone had been filming – he got lucky; he was safe. Grantaire had pitched in the extra to bail him out, and no one had asked where he’d gotten the cash. There would be a fine, but no time or trial – that wasn’t worth the courts’ money, or the school’s. Blocking an interstate would cause no lasting harm, and he could afford to stay enrolled. There would be discipline, but fifty one others had been arrested with him. There was nothing to be done.

Rolling his shoulders, Combeferre makes his way down the hallway and into the small kitchen, where Enjolras is drinking coffee and comparing headlines from three papers: the NY Times, the Guardian, and Le Monde are spread in front of him, and he does not notice that Combeferre has woken up. He’s wearing only his binder and sweatpants, but for all his rumpled appearance,he has evidently been up for a while.

“Hey,” Combeferre croaks hoarsely, and Enjolras spins around, standing quickly enough to send the Guardian sliding across the table.

“Combeferre! I’d hoped you’d sleep longer. You didn’t get out until midnight, and it’s seven – you need rest.” Enjolras brushes deft fingers along the colorful bruise along Combeferre’s cheek, cataloguing bumps and scabs, making sure that all was well.

Combeferre barely resists snorting at the hypocrisy, and settles for a fond roll of the eyes. “Enjolras, I’m perfectly all right. I’ve had worse, and I’ve slept far less. I take care of myself, unlike you.”

Combeferre had expected a sullen huff in return, but instead, Enjolras looks incredibly vulnerable, and incredibly young.

“I wish you didn’t have to get hurt.”

Combeferre’s postures softens, and he pulls Enjolras closer to him so that Enjolras’ chin rests on his shoulder.

“I know. I wish it was so, too. But our bodies will heal, our voices will stay strong. And when we are not fighting, we will teach, and so we will change. It will change, Enjolras, and you will see it!”

Enjolras pulls back and looks at Combeferre a long while, then leans forward to gently press his lips to Combeferre’s forehead.

They exchange no more words, but Enjolras slips four painkillers into Combeferre’s pocket as he walks out the door.

-

The months pass. September rolls around and whispers begin. Zuccotti Park, haven’t you heard? Tents, drum circles, education – the people are rising! I heard people are coming from all over. My friend from Orgeon moved up there, brought a tent. Do you think we could do something like that here? Do you think we have enough people? D’ya think the faculty’d be okay with it? Things begin to spiral.

It starts with more and more people coming to the meetings. Students, professors, dropouts, people off the street – they are angry, talking over each other, shouting to be heard. They fall silent for Enjolras, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange glances over the rows of chairs. They will be prepared. And oh, Enjolras thrives.

They put up a website and begin to write – Bahorel emails his old friend in Zuccotti park and makes a contact with the Berkeley students. Articles begin to pour in – October passes in a blur of writing and planning. They stop attending protests – between Occupy and school, there is no time, and they can’t risk anything now. This is something they can directly participate in, and the potential goes straight to Enjolras’ head. He is drunk in the possibilities of it all, his typing unable to keep up with the myriad of ideas he tries to express. The site flourishes – they get submissions from all over, and Combeferre has to drag Enjolras away from the computer most nights. They establish a rhythm, a pattern of shifts. Courfeyrac all but moves in with them, and between the three of them, everything gets done. It isn’t, however, a job for three people, and it shows. Even with the help of a couple willing faculty members, and with well over forty people willing to help at any time, the majority of the work falls to Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac.

Enjolras begins to tie his hair in a bun to keep it out of the way – it goes unwashed and unkempt, dark circles form around his eyes, and his face becomes slightly sallow. He takes to skipping anything not essential to his life or his grades – little else seems to matter. Combeferre looks much as he ever has, steady and reliable, but there is strain to his smile and tension in his shoulders that doesn’t go away. Enjolras will come home some nights to find Combeferre collapsed on the counter, a lukewarm mug of black tea clutched in one hand as he sleeps. Courfeyrac goes out less and less, spends less and less time outside and with others, preferring to reach out through the internet. He is their lifeline to other movements, helped by Bahorel and Grantaire, and he runs himself ragged making sure that everything gets done. But word is getting out. The papers are taking notice, bloggers thrive in the environment – the people are listening.

November shows up with cold snaps in the morning that there aren’t enough blankets for, accompanied by tuition increases that none of them can afford. The murmurs and rumors are subtle at first, but they grow and grow and grow until the anger is nearly tangible in the air. Combeferre’s English studies professor approaches him in the halls – _A teach-in, scheduled for the fifteenth. Will you come? Can you help? Spread the word. We won’t be silent._ He agrees before he can truly contemplate it. This is what they’ve been waiting for.


End file.
